Haddock's War
by Constantinus
Summary: Everybody knew about the War, but what they didn't know was that the War wasn't over. Not by a long shot. A SciFi AU very much inspired by Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game, and draws on characters and situations from both the films and the TV series.
1. Prologue

**A/N: First, a word of explanation. The idea for this fic has been bouncing around inside my head for nearly a year now. I certainly couldn't have written it last summer when it first occurred to me, but having started now, I find I can't stop. The inspiration for this story comes from a number of different things: Orson Scott Card's _Ender's Game_ , _Star Wars_ , _Doctor Who_ , and my own experiences as a graduate teaching assistant. But mostly from How to Train Your Dragon, which belongs to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation. I hope this fic is as much fun to read as it is to write. **

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Prologue:

They came from across the stars, from a far-away world the humans knew only as the Nest. Astronomers had observed it for years, dreaming of perhaps exploring it someday and speculating about whether its surface could support life. By the time they discovered what its surface actually supported, it was too late.

Everyone knew about the War; of course they did. Even those who lived in rural areas far from the densely-populated cities and urban centers had felt the effects of the initial invasion: fear running like a flood through the streets while the world burned, mighty cities reduced to rubble and strong men to whimpering husks of humanity in the face of imminent defeat. Dragons landed in wave after unstoppable wave, coming directly from the Nest, punching through Earth's pathetic shield of atmosphere to wreak destruction on the unsuspecting populace below.

San Francisco was the first hit; it fell in a day. From its blackened ruins, fire leaped forth to scorch the hardened deserts of the western states and devour the Great Plains, reaping a bitter harvest of ash and smoke. The death toll, so high after the first strike, only rose in the weeks of chaos that followed. Those not directly affected by the initial attacks soon succumbed to the privation and sickness that followed in the wake of crumbling infrastructure and lack of resources.

The Americas eventually capitulated, overwhelmed too quickly to fight back. The Pacific Islands were hit hard; New Zealand and Taiwan were overrun while the islands of Japan burned. But the inhabitants of central Asia, Europe, and Australia, in the little time they had, banded together to fight back.

It was difficult; lingering political prejudices nearly grounded the fighter pilots before they could take off, and the inexorable threat of terror descending from the skies had left smaller countries cowering in knock-kneed impotence. Somehow, the few countries left had managed it, beating the invaders back bit by bit until the tide turned. The final battle was an all-for-it, win-or-die confrontation far above the planet's surface, stubborn humanity against the unknowable foe, the humans united by terror and desperation in equal measure, giving no quarter and taking none. They were led by a Scandinavian pilot, a man renowned for an insane mixture of reckless courage and unbelievable skill. His name was Finn Hofferson, known to his men as Fearless. Those invaders not killed outright slunk back to their world on the other side of the solar system, metaphorical tails between their legs, while the shocked and scattered remnant of humanity rose from the devastation to rebuild. The battle was won, but at a great cost in lives. After striking the final, decisive blow, Finn Hofferson was never seen again, presumed dead or captured. In his absence, the men he had led returned to Earth to mourn, to rebuild, and ultimately, to rejoice at their victory.

But before the rejoicing came the sorrow.

The death toll was catastrophic; like strong forests blasted by wildfire, the young and strong had been cut down with the old and weak. There was not a family on Earth not affected, and whole countries were decimated in the harshest reminder of frailty possible.

But from the ashes the phoenix arose, hope blossoming with the turning of the seasons.

Everything on Earth changed after that, and not just the ecology. At first, smaller countries and states, unable to rebuild on their own limited resources, joined in alliance under strong rulers; then larger countries, fearing for their political well-being, banded into confederacies continent-wide and millions strong. Firm political rulers, democratically elected, soon replaced weak hereditary monarchs and the idealistic schisms of theocratic governments. Economic patterns shifted, regions with a surplus of resources first encouraged, then mandated to aid those with less. Dissident voices were drowned out in the clamor for global politics and economy, the needy majority outweighing the cautious minority.

Twenty years after the first invasion, the habitable parts of the planet were united under a planetary ruler: the Premier, chief of state and ultimate political authority on Earth. This august individual, summarily elected and serving a lengthy term of service, reshaped the globe, raising it to a new order, one that turned on centralized government and strong military rule.

Along with the control of their trade, regional centers dedicated their younger generation to the creation of the Planetary Defense Corps, a body dedicated to protection and prevention on the ground, in the sky, and beyond.

Because the Premier and the people he ruled, every last man, woman, and child on Earth, knew with a dreaded certainty that the invaders would eventually be back. It was only a question of when.

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think. Updates will probably be weekly, depending on how much time I have between working multiple jobs. 'Til the next chapter!**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Surprise update! Since the Prologue was really only a bit of backstory, I decided to post this tonight. (It's also because I actually really like this chapter; I know, shameless ego-stroking. I'll stop now.)**

 **GuardianDragon98, I don't know if anybody has tried to combine these two stories before, but I wouldn't mind seeing that trailer you mentioned. It sounds epic! And thanks for the review, by the way.**

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Chapter 1:

"Communication between species doesn't have to be a matter of linguistics and phonology; in fact, it's better if it isn't. Just look at the problems verbal communication gets us into sometimes. Couples, wouldn't you be much happier if you could communicate telepathically, without the possibility of eavesdroppers or misunderstandings?"

A few nods answered this question, and one or two slightly guilty glances passed between students. A sly chuckle sounded from the back of the classroom.

"Humans are, unfortunately, incapable of this most elemental form of exchange, but other species are perhaps not so limited. Common household pets, such as dogs, communicate territorial claims and alpha status through the senses of smell and touch . . . as well as other things. Certain species of birds attract mates through elaborate dances and by decorating their nests, demonstrating a significant use of visual communication."

A hand rose in the front row. "Like with human sign language?" its owner inquired.

"Sort of, though it's both less explicit and subtler than sign language, which relies on an alphabet, grammar, and vocabulary to communicate meaning. Animal forms are based on impulse and instinct; without words, communication doesn't fall victim to the varied shades of meaning inherent in vocabulary, or to the difficulties of grammatical structure."

Another question, from the same student as before. "So, you're saying that if humans could adopt a similar language, one based on impulse and instinct, it would be universal and there would be no need for foreign language study or international dictionaries?"

"Think about it: humans are of the same species, our impulses and instincts are universally the same."

Several frowning faces met this pronouncement, their owners stirring slightly in discontent with the statement.

"We read each other's body language and posture, in some cases more clearly than others, but the capability is there to communicate without language. To a greater extent than we do now. Unless I am reading it incorrectly, some of you are even now ready to destroy me with your objections, which really only proves my point. Any questions?"

A pause, the collective breath before the first trepidatious hand rose above the small sea of faces. Then the bell rang, signifying the end of class and effectively forestalling disagreement or questioning. The whole classroom exhaled raggedly, students standing to stretch their legs and pack their bags, filing out of the lecture hall in a haphazard line. Henry released a pent-up breath and turned to shut down the visual projector, wrapping up yet another lecture with an oft-practiced ritual.

"Professor," a voice accosted him from behind. He turned, startled. It was the student who had asked questions, a tall, athletic girl with long blonde hair in an elaborate braid. She oozed self-confidence; he had to stand up completely straight to keep himself level with her eyes. They were blue, he noticed abstractly. She was probably on one of the university's sports teams, Henry decided.

"It's Astrid, isn't it?" he inquired politely.

She smiled tightly, the vacant sort of half-grimace required for polite interactions. "That's right," she replied, stretching out a hand. "Astrid Hofferson." The handshake she gave him was firm, a testament to discipline and training. "Excuse me, but I still have questions."

"I'll bet you do," he replied, packing books into his overfilled backpack and lifting it carefully. "Are you free now?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "And for the rest of the evening."

"Okay," he nodded. "Can. . . can I get you a drink?"

She seemed taken aback, some of her self-confidence slipping though he had asked it shyly enough. "Are you asking me out just because I said I have questions? You must be really desperate."

He ignored the not-so-subtle jibe. "I've given this lecture before, Astrid. It always generates conversation. And you can call me Henry, by the way."

A pause as she looked him up and down. No doubt, he thought privately, she was noticing every detail, from the middling stature and skinny shoulders to the mop of auburn hair badly in need of a trim and the worn, ill-fitting clothing. "Okay then," she replied, retaking control. "Coffee. But I'm buying; and don't get fresh."

He shrugged non-committally. _Fresh_ was a word of endlessly variable meaning and, despite popular opinion, he really wasn't that desperate. "Suit yourself."

* * *

Astrid was nothing if not direct, asking questions fueled by rapid-fire logic. Henry held his cup between his hands, warming chilly fingers. Winter in New Amsterdam was brutal, his coat was nearly threadbare, and the walk from lecture hall to the cantina had reduced him to a shivering wretch; it was difficult to think in his present circumstances. "As I said in class, it's just a theory, but one bolstered by philosophy. There are quite a few ancient religious texts that teach the wisdom of keeping one's mouth shut."

She sniffed, clearly unconvinced. "Since when have philosophy and religion steered the development of language? Communication always comes first."

"Just like theory follows practice," he answered. "But the theory has to be based on practical models or no one will take it seriously. And the best theories, the ones that make the most sense, are the simplest ones, the ones that don't include infinite variables and unknown factors."

"So, you think that human communication would be better if it didn't involve vocabulary and grammar," Astrid stated, planting folded arms on the table in front of her. It was a statement, not a question.

"Clearer, yes. Better . . . that's debatable," he responded equivocally.

Astrid snorted. "That's just a semantic distraction," she retorted.

"Like I said."

Frustrated by his reply, Astrid looked up sharply. "Okay, then, give me an example of this supposed non-verbal communication," she snapped.

Henry sighed, setting his coffee cup down and steepling his fingers together. "Right now, you're thinking that this wasn't such a good idea after all, that my theories can't be true because they're too outlandish, that whatever I say now you can just dismiss later, and that this conversation is going nowhere."

"Anything else?" she asked, brows lowering.

He plunged onward, aware of the danger but unheeding. "Yeah, and the coffee is seriously overpriced. And that you could kick me right now because I'm right."

"But that's not just body language," she growled in reply, "and you know it."

"Think about it, Astrid," he cajoled, warming to his subject. "Neither of us is really going to say exactly what we're thinking, but I can make a fairly accurate guess at what you'd like to say and do, just as you could for me. Now imagine if we could do it without words at all, using our senses. Or by communicating telepathically." He waved dramatically, hands aiding his voice in his need for her to understand.

"But that's the problem," Astrid objected. "The examples you mentioned in class, and what we're doing right now, it all involves action or proximity. If you can't see me, you can't 'read my mind' or whatever it is you do. But that's not how telepathy works."

He quieted slightly, taken aback. "There are," he began slowly, "some species that need neither action nor proximity, as you say; some that can just . . . think . . . what they want to communicate."

"What species?"

But at this question, he balked, unwilling to give her specifics. "Certain insectoid species. Biologists call it Hivemind."

She leaned forward, pressing her advantage. "What species? 'Cause I've studied biology well enough to know that there isn't any species on Earth that can formulate and communicate actual thoughts. So if you're going to posit a universal, non-linguistic language based on posture and physical impulses, then I sure hope you've got some empirical studies to back it up."

Henry stared into his cup; the coffee had gone cold, much like the conversation. Standing, he pulled on his threadbare overcoat. "Thanks," he mumbled, confidence gone, "for the coffee, I mean. But I have to go." She raised a hand to stop him, but he was out the door with a final "See you in class!" before she could speak.

She pursed her lips, thinking. "Fine, Henry Haddock, if that's how you like it!"

* * *

The bus out of New Amsterdam was nearly empty, most of its passengers huddled near the front, where proximity to the engines afforded at least the hope of extra heat. Henry sat alone at the back of the vehicle, vaporous breath matching the twisting ephemera of his thoughts. It was poor policy to offend one's students, he mused, especially the good-looking, popular, athletic ones. Astrid Hofferson was polite enough, but some of her friends and classmates were both bigger and less restrained. Assault on tenured professors was almost unheard-of, but teaching assistants, caught in the awkward limbo between student and instructor, were less secure, their positions temporary and therefore, doubtful. And, he reflected bitterly, students on athletic scholarships could afford a poor grade or the relatively ineffectual fine handed down for the frequent infractions that arose from the student body. He was dead meat for sure. Not that anybody would really mind if he ended up dead meat.

A burst of laughter from the front of the bus interrupted his morbid musings, and he huddled deeper into the uncomfortable seat, trying in vain to make himself smaller and warmer. The bus ride lasted into the evening hours, dropping him at his decrepit apartment building well after sundown. Hands shaking with the cold, he darted through the outer door as quickly as he could and climbed the echoing stairwell in the dark. Upon reaching the relative safety of his tiny apartment, he sagged against the door in relief, before jolting back upright when an unmistakable someone switched on the light.

"Dad!" he protested, clutching his chest. "Don't scare me like that!"

Solomon Haddock stood with arms crossed in the center of the room, face cast in shadow by the single bare light-bulb that swung from the ceiling. His ordinarily ruddy skin looked waxy in the harsh light, a poor contrast to his expensive grey suit and vivid red hair. His habitual frown softened slightly at Henry's outburst and he stepped forward.

"Sorry, son," he rumbled, "but I needed to speak with you, and you weren't answering my calls."

Startled by the sudden reminder, Henry pulled a battered communicator from his coat pocket and checked it. "Oh. Oops. Sorry Dad. I was out and . . . . Wait a minute; who let you in here?"

"Your landlord."

Henry raised an eyebrow. The landlord was hardly ever sober enough to unlock his own front door, let alone know the right key for each apartment in the building. "Well, I'll be speaking to him about that later," Henry grumbled mockingly.

"This is serious, son," his father retorted, snapping him back to attention.

A beat. "Right then," he replied evenly, heading into the dingy, poorly-lit kitchen to put the kettle on. "So, you didn't fly all this way just to see me, I hope," he called over his shoulder.

"Weekend conference," Solomon rumbled. "Some local officials trying to throw their weight around. We'll soon set 'em right."

"Sure, Dad," Henry grunted in reply, "that's great." The tone was sardonic, as were the words.

In the awkward pause that followed these words, Solomon followed his son into the adjacent room, reducing the already cramped space to an even more claustrophobic state. He sat down at the battered table, bringing him closer to Henry's eye-line. "What've you been up to, Henry?"

That was a loaded question. Henry opted for the safest answer. "Oh, you know . . . this and that. Classes, research, writing a dissertation." He set a large mug of tea down in front of his father and sat across from him. "Trying to not get mugged by one of the locals."

Solomon sipped politely at the tea, careful not to spill it on his finely trimmed beard or impeccable suit. "That bad, eh?"

Henry raised his own mug, examining the steam rising from it with intense concentration, avoiding his father's gaze. "I've seen worse," he answered, truthfully. Across the table, Solomon stiffened. They had both seen worse. It was a taut and cautious game they were playing, one they had played many times, and Henry was flirting on the edges of safety.

Relaxing slowly, Solomon set down his mug and plunged in, meeting the problem head-on. "I came here to ask you if you've changed your mind; if you'll reconsider."

Henry squared his meager shoulders, a warning sign, but Solomon held up a hand and continued.

"We need you in the program, your ideas and abilities. There's a place for you in the communications division where your skills would be valued, your opinions considered—"

"So you'd actually listen to me for once?" Henry interrupted, gripping the edge of the table hard. He spoke softly, grinding out consonants with a perfect diction born of extreme emotion. "Because, I thought it would take a major climate change for you to hear and acknowledge everything wrong with the program and why I will _never_ join it." He stood up, muscles rigid and green eyes burning with conviction, the last resource of a man with nothing to lose.

"Henry, you don't have to participate in the training program, just lend your knowledge to its organizational aspects and help with recruiting." Solomon was growing angry, impatient with his son's continued resistance. "Oh, this is ridiculous, stop being so stubborn and just help me out. Or if you won't help me, at least let go of your pride and let me help you."

Henry turned on his heel, striding to the door and opening it. "With respect, Dad," he said stiffly, "no. I haven't changed my mind, I won't reconsider, and you can leave now. Please."

Solomon remained seated. "Not even for your mother's sake?" he asked softly. "Hiccup?"

Henry turned away, wincing at the use of the once-familiar nickname. "Not even for that," he whispered.

Solomon stood, making for the door with long strides. He paused in the doorway and set a hand on his son's narrow shoulder. "By the way," he began quietly, "Colonel Gorman reports he may've found a candidate for battle commander."

Henry swallowed, still avoiding eye contact.

"You'd like him," Solomon continued, "he's about your age; intelligent, cunning, ambitious . . . . They call him Dagur."

This pronouncement was met with smoldering silence, a pause pregnant with restrained resentment.

Solomon left then, rumbling out like a thunderstorm about to break. Somewhere else. Henry stood for a long time, leaning on the door as if it was the only thing holding him up. And it probably was. Standing, he rubbed a hand over his eyes and returned to the kitchen, where the mugs of tea had long since gone stone cold.

* * *

High above New Amsterdam's reeking and chilly streets, a man-made star twinkled in the dark sky, a monstrosity alien to nature and a marvel rising above it. Within its polished and gleaming walls, artificial gravity held its inhabitants in their allotted places as firmly as earth-borne authority held its hierarchical structure together.

All but one of them.

Dagur the Deranged—not his real name, since they assumed new designations when they entered battle school and gave each other far more imaginative nicknames—clutched his nose in minor irritation, dabbling at the red liquid dripping down his front and trying not to look at the sopping and red-streaked tile floor. That way lay trouble, far worse trouble than any he had seen before in his life. And not for the first time, he had caused it.

But he could explain it; the other had attacked first, and he'd fought in self-defense. It would all be hushed up, he knew. It was in the best interests of the military to avoid scandal at any cost. But it would remain in his file like a poisonous blot, whispering nasty rumors against his reputation and spoiling his chances at promotion.

Dagur was never one to let a trifling matter of _reputation_ stand in his way. Given time, and some persuasion, he could talk his way around the incident, perhaps even turn it to his advantage. He smirked slightly, still dabbing at his tender nose, and turned his footsteps out of the locker room.

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 **Thanks for reading, and do please review; it's the polite thing to do, or so I'm told. And, I respond to every single review I receive. Good night, everyone!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Longish chapter, sorry; there was absolutely no way to get it shorter. Hope you like!**

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Chapter 2:

The next day was Saturday; blessed, beautiful, glorious Saturday. No classes meant she could run, she could train, she could spend the whole day on the football field with no one to tell her no. Astrid rolled over under the covers, blissfully contemplating a day of bracing physical activity, a chance to get her blood moving. Sitting up, she threw the piled blankets off in a fluid motion—

Then screamed at the sight that met her gaze. Tyler Thorston, her roommate's irritating twin brother, was hanging upside down from the open bunk above her head, overgrown blonde hair almost obscuring his face. He chuckled throatily, immediately giving himself away.

"Gotcha', Astrid," he taunted, wiry arms folded across his narrow chest.

Astrid balled a fist, ready to punch, but he wiggled out of reach, falling off the bunk and landing on his own head in the process. He got up, wobbling slightly, and favored her with a rather slack-jawed smile.

"Riley!" Astrid yelled. "What is your half-wit brother doing in my room?"

"Riley!" Tyler echoed. "You never told me we had a half-wit brother. Where is he? I wanna' meet him. And pay up while you're at it!"

"Stop yelling!" Riley yelled from the doorway, not heeding her own outburst. "What is going on?"

"Our bet," Tyler reminded her truculently. "You promised me a date if I could get your roommate to scream like a girl. And boy, did she scream, so pay up!"

Riley jumped him and put him in a nasty headlock. "You dummy," she growled, "you're looking at your date."

"Oh, you mean Astrid? No thanks. But keep doing that," he grunted. "It feels especially good when you pull really hard."

Riley obliged and Tyler's spine popped. "Aah, that's great." He was practically purring. Riley kicked him in the shin by way of answer, and both of them tumbled onto the floor in an untidy heap of gangly limbs and plaid pajamas.

Astrid rolled her eyes and stood, ignoring the scuffling twins. They couldn't focus on any one subject long enough for her to bother correcting any delusions of grandeur they harbored. Leaving them rolling on the floor in a display of mingled sibling affection and rivalry, she retreated into the kitchen to make coffee, only half listening to the few snatches of lucid conversation the twins carried on between grunts and shrieks.

"You said it would be easy—"

"It was; if you weren't such a girl you could have done it a long time ago."

"Well, if I was a girl I wouldn't need a date, now would I?"

After three months in the same residence hall, Astrid and Riley had established a tentative equilibrium, one built on polite boundaries and limitless patience; and since Astrid's schedule so often kept her out late, she managed to pass days at a time without seeing her roommate. Tyler, on the other hand, was a nuisance, plain and simple. He was, as Astrid had once aptly described him, rather akin to one of those old-fashioned tea-kettles, the kind that if left on the stove would whistle without ceasing until the exasperated hearer dealt with it, only to find all of the water boiled away with insistent noise. He was all sound and fury with nothing to show for it; and, at the moment, it was rather a lot of sound.

Such was Tyler Thorston, and at her very worst moments, Riley was little better.

Astrid examined her handiwork with approval: the coffee was percolating nicely, filling the tidy kitchen with that wonderful aroma, the smell of late mornings with breakfast in bed, or long nights cramming for a test, or innumerable coffee dates with friends and classmates. She only hoped that her luck with the coffee-maker had overnight changed for the better, though that might have been too much to dream of.

"What were you doing out last night?" Riley's question interrupted her musing, and she blinked in surprise. The twin was standing at her elbow, quarrel with her brother forgotten or abandoned in favor of a new topic.

"Having coffee with . . . some guy," she replied hastily. Riley didn't need to know every detail of her social life.

"It wasn't that stupid wrestler, was it?" Riley asked in response.

Astrid glared at her; accepting an invitation from Steffan Jorgenson had been a colossal mistake, one she would not make again.

Riley grinned, knowing she had hit her mark. "Well, he stopped by yesterday, looking for you," she stated, nonchalantly twisting her hair between two fingers.

Astrid hesitated, unwilling to admit weakness but needing to know what Riley had done this time. "Well," she ground out, arms crossed, "what did you tell him?"

"That you were out, but would probably be training all of today." Riley looked her straight in the eye and grinned wickedly, then turned to pour herself a massive mug of coffee.

"Seriously, Riley? How many times have I told you not to manhandle my social life?" Astrid threw up her hands in exasperation. "And don't drink all of it!" she added, indicating the coffee decanter. "Don't forget what happened last time."

"Ooh," Tyler cut in, picking up the thread of the conversation, "that sounds cool; can I watch?"

"You wouldn't have the stomach for it," Riley reminded him tartly, adding an absurd amount of sugar and cream and stirring vigorously.

"What, your manhandling or Astrid's coffee?" Tyler asked slyly.

Astrid had heard enough. Abandoning coffee and twins alike, she grabbed her bag and headed out, intent on the sole purpose of getting as far away from Riley and Tyler Thorston as possible.

* * *

They stood in their ranks, military discipline keeping every spine ramrod straight and every pair of eyes resolutely forward. The colonel paced incessantly as he spoke, his constant movement practically daring them to waver or fidget, to yield in any way. None did. Colonel Gorman —known to his students as Gobber, though they never called him that to his face—continued to speak, volume rising steadily until his captive audience could not possibly miss or mistake his words.

"Today's exercise will require teamwork and coordinated attack to ensure your survival," he rumbled in his nasal burr, making eye contact with several students in the front rank while addressing the group as a whole. "Each fighter will represent a single team, skirmish style, no allegiances. The team that lasts the longest will be declared the winner."

Dagur kept his eyes forward, not moving a muscle. He could feel Alvin's eyes boring through his skull from behind, probably trying to send him subliminal messages; he ignored it. Alvin was a few years older than he and much bigger, but also reckless and impatient; for all his youth, Dagur knew the value of time and precision, and when to keep his mouth shut. It had served him well in battle school, and his diligence and single-mindedness in training had earned him the respect of his instructors and peers.

Colonel Gorman continued his instructions, relaying the usual remarks about sportsmanship and good conduct in training exercises. Every recruit present had heard it often enough to memorize it, but the colonel continued to repeat it every day out of habit. "Respect your opponents, no monkey business, and knock 'em dead," Gorman growled, the twenty students gathered before him joining in the cry. In their heads, of course.

"Now off to the hangar with ya!"

Alvin tugged on his friend's elbow as they filed out of the assembly room and down the adjoining corridor. Dagur ignored him for about ten seconds—just for form's sake—and then responded.

"What?"

"The usual strategy, my short friend?" the taller man asked, laughing.

"Yes, but you heard the colonel: no monkey business, not like last time."

"Oh, that? That was improvisation." Alvin's tone and manner were flippant, but he maintained his practiced position a pace behind and to Dagur's left.

"Your improvisation nearly got us court-martialled." Dagur didn't even bother looking over his shoulder for Alvin's reaction. "From now on, we improvise when I say so. And only when we have back-up."

There was silence for a moment as they walked, then Alvin spoke again. "Something's gotten into you today. Who knew you'd be so sensitive about a little training mishap? Or is this about the accident?"

Dagur turned sharply, grabbing Alvin's left fore-arm and twisting it to the side. "Look, I know it was you who set him on, so what happened is your fault. If you ever provoke someone else into challenging me, I will make sure you pay for it. Understand?" He gave Alvin's wrist one last wrenching twist for good measure, then released him.

Alvin rubbed at the joint sullenly but held his peace, too experienced to contradict Dagur in a sour mood.

"Well, now that we've sorted that out," Dagur concluded sweetly, shifting gears with the agility of a finely calibrated transmission unit, "shall we?"

They had reached the massive hangar, stepping through its doors and heading for one of the two-man fighter units that lined the walls; around them other teams were gearing up for the exercise, fitting narrow impact helmets over their heads and slipping into seats to test the controls.

The fighters were designed much as those first deployed during the First Invasion twenty years later. Rounded at the back end with room for the pilot to maneuver, they narrowed into a vicious point at the front, from which the gunner could fire shot after shot from the twin cannons. They were efficiently designed, but also elegant, sleek even, their shape vaguely reminiscent of a rose-hip or an opalescent teardrop.

Dagur set his hand on the nose of his fighter, inspecting the cannon with a practiced eye. Because of his smaller size and lethal accuracy, Dagur was easily the best gunner in the school, able to take on multiple opponents at once. And Alvin, slow and plodding on his own two feet, took on a speed and agility he didn't naturally possess when he sat in the pilot's seat. His daredevil piloting skills had helped make him and Dagur the most successful fighter team in the school.

They were an unusual pairing, he and Alvin. They worked well together, remarkably well, their competitiveness pushing each of them to feed off the other's strengths and keep improving. And they had earned their rank and the respect of their classmates and opponents. In terms of mutual improvement, they were good for each other. But trust? That was a different matter entirely.

Alvin whooped loudly as he lifted the canopy and hopped into the cockpit; Dagur followed more slowly, taking time to buckle the safety strap before checking each and every knob, lever, or trigger on the panel in front of him. Safety checks completed, they rose from the hangar floor in close formation with the other nine teams, streaming out through the wide bay doors into the star-strewn firmament.

The fighters fanned out across the sky, some sticking close to the massive satellite's outer hull, others cruising to separate themselves from the pack. In flock exercises they flew in formation, each fighter adding to the whole. But this was different, this was single combat in space, every man for himself. Surrounded by the perfectly balanced order of the Earth, the moon, and the station in orbit, each fighter flew through chaos and disorder to find the eye of the storm, the calm center in which a fighter could be practically unassailable, controlling the action from its very heart. It was glorious.

Abruptly, Dagur was jerked from his contemplation of beautiful incongruities by a sound he distinctly disliked.

"Uh, oh," Alvin grumbled sharply.

 _Uh oh_ was bad in the hangar; it was doubly bad in flight.

"What?" Dagur responded, attention firmly fixed on the workings of their fighter.

"Forward shields disabled," Alvin responded from above him, frantically flipping switches. "Completely gone."

"What about rear shields?" Dagur asked, infinite possibilities and probabilities already racing through his mind.

"Uh . . . fifty percent," was the grunted reply.

Great, Dagur reflected. This was what Colonel Gorman—that old wind-bags, Gobber—had meant when he rambled on about 'survival'. The disruptor beams with which they trained couldn't destroy the fighters, only temporarily disable them, but with their shields compromised a single well-placed beam would knock them out of the exercise and ruin their reputation.

"Do we stay back, stick to the outskirts?" Alvin asked, large hands still flying over his console. "I might be able to divert some power from the rear shields to the front. I'll need time, though."

Around them other fighters circled around, variously angling for position on the boundaries of the training field or zipping across the open space as their pilots discovered the intentional sabotage that threatened to turn the exercise into a melee. Dagur watched them closely, weighing their options. The fighters were vulnerable from behind, where a wider surface area meant a bigger target for opponents. From the front they were much harder to hit, but a hit anywhere in the vicinity of the cannons would mean automatic failure.

Throwing caution to the winds, Dagur made his decision.

"We do exactly what Gobber said: we attack head-on, no holds barred and no quarter."

"Happy birthday to me," Alvin chuckled, gripping the yoke with an aggressive smile on his face.

"Adrenaline junkie," Dagur chided, and they were off.

They zipped recklessly across the training field in a straight line, heading for a point on the outskirts where three other fighters hovered in loose formation. Dagur fired off three shots in quick succession, each angled in a different direction. Predictably, the opponents dodged and scattered, one swerving to flank him while the others accelerated to meet him head-on.

Alvin turned sharply and cut the forward thrusters, sending their rear swerving while the nose remained stationary. Their momentum spun them ninety degrees until they were perpendicular with the approaching fighters. Deploying both cannons, Dagur fired four more shots and watched with satisfaction as his opponents were broadsided, the disruptors spreading crackling blue light across each fighter's hull.

Alvin spun the yoke and they rolled, narrowly missing a broadside from the third fighter and cutting between the cannons of two more. Dagur was momentarily blinded by the flash of cannons not his own. They dropped lower, briefly hugging the satellite before rising again behind another fighter. Dagur worked his cannons smoothly, firing shot after shot into its rear thrusters until the already compromised shields overloaded and the fighter swerved away, incapacitated.

"This is awesome!" Dagur yelled, and Alvin howled with manic laughter.

Around them, other fighters engaged each other, beams of light flashing back and forth across the training field. Alvin ducked and rolled while Dagur fired shot after shot into the pack of fighters around them, their movements instinctive. After some minutes, the field was clear but for them and one other fighter. They circled each other warily, figuratively sizing each other up.

Dagur sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing the final opponent. "Drago and Eret," he ground out through gritted teeth. They were the one team that could really rival Dagur and Alvin for dominance. And if the latter pair could be antagonistic, the former made them look like best friends.

"You ready for this?" Alvin asked, gunning the thrusters in anticipation.

"Bring it on," Dagur grinned.

Alvin brought their nose up and put on a burst of speed; Dagur put his finger to the trigger and began firing. Several of his shots landed, glancing away.

"Dagur, we've got a problem," Alvin shouted as they slewed around, changing speed and position in a deliberately random pattern.

"I see it," he grunted. Drago and Eret had found a way to restore their forward shields somehow. "Can you get us under them?"

"Working on it."

'Getting under' proved to be a problem; Drago and Eret had shifted and were now on their tail. Alvin swore loudly when a shot clipped his rear thruster, sending them into a tailspin.

"Hm, Eret's aim has gotten better," Dagur observed dispassionately.

"It's gonna' be a lot worse when I get through with him," Alvin grunted in return.

They evened out, climbing and picking up speed. Drago followed, shadowing them with practiced expertise. Alvin led him a merry chase, ducking and dodging disruptor beams, trying to get Dagur into firing position.

"Agh, this is getting boring," Dagur finally shouted. "Get us under him, Alvin!"

Alvin cut the thrusters, bringing the fighter to a sharp halt that threw both of them painfully forward into their restraints. It worked, though; Drago's fighter shot over them before its pilot realized what they'd done. Lifting their nose, Alvin dove after them with gusto.

Then Dagur fired, flinging beam after beam at the opponent. They pinged off, unable to puncture the shields.

"We've gotta' do something about those shields," Alvin growled.

"I know, I know," Dagur shouted, still shooting everything he had. He gritted his teeth as the fighter shuddered around him. "Okay, here's the plan: we cut across his front and put a disruptor down his cannons. Both of them."

"That's suicide, Dagur."

"Trust me, it'll work."

Alvin swore again, then shoved the yoke over. "Here goes nothin'," he grunted, fighting the centrifugal motion.

Dagur felt his stomach drop and the fighter's tiny bubble of interior gravity started spinning as Alvin cut the thrusters entirely. The fighter flipped completely over and Alvin engaged the forward thrusters; they flew backwards and upside down, wobbling precariously but maintaining their position. Dagur swung his cannons back and forth with his stomach in his throat, looking for the perfect angle. Eyes scanning below him, he caught a single glimpse of his target coming in hard as Drago realized too late what they were doing.

Dagur inhaled deeply, and time slowed to a crawl; his next two shots spun lazily from the cannons, sparkling through the darkness. They flew straight and true, the first reaching its target but glancing harmlessly off the shielded exterior. The second flew straight into the upper cannon's length and disappeared. For a single tense second, nothing happened. Then electric blue light lanced across the fighter's hull and its thrusters cut out, disabled. Alvin whooped and flipped them right side up, corkscrewing into a victory spin that took them back into the hangar.

They disembarked quietly, along with the rest of the fighter crews; gloating was strictly forbidden in the school. But as they made their way back up to the residential areas of the satellite, Dagur felt a hand on his back.

"That was some pretty impressive shooting back there," Eret congratulated him cordially.

"You weren't so bad yourself," he returned, keeping a straight face though he grinned inside.

Eret continued, his voice casual. "Look, if you ever find yourself in need of support, I've got your back."

Dagur frowned, looking at his interlocutor for the first time. "And why would you say that?" he asked.

"Oh, no reason," Eret replied, his voice still conversational. "Just thought I'd offer."

Behind them, Drago growled out something unintelligible in his gravelly voice.

"Better go," Eret said cheerfully. "I'll see you soon."

And with that, he was off, leaving a slightly confused Dagur in his wake.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Not sure about this chapter, but I thought I might as well go ahead and publish it anyway. Big thank you to readers Grz and GuardianDragon98 for their support and encouraging reviews. Enjoy, folks!**

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Chapter 3:

Feeble, late-morning sunlight streamed in through the grimy windows to illuminate the cramped kitchen table, highlighting the slight figure bent over a stack of battered textbooks and crumpled papers.

Sunday meant research, hours spent poring over piles of scholarly texts mingled with extended periods of sustained writing, his own addition to academic literature slowly taking shape in his brain to be transcribed under his fingers. Not that anyone in the academic community would ever read or give credence to a dissertation proposing outlandish and seemingly impossible theories, even if it did pass a faculty committee. Still, conviction counted for something, and conviction combined with sound empirical research was a powerful tool. Even if said empirical research wasn't strictly legal.

Henry dug through a stack of papers, unearthing a battered brown notebook and thumbing through its pages until he found what he sought. It contained a detailed sketch, lines of dark charcoal standing out in stark contrast to the light brown page. He studied it intensely for a few seconds, then scratched at his chin, suddenly becoming aware of the prickly stubby under his fingernails. His fingers came away smudged with charcoal, a clear indication that his face was no longer strictly clean.

He stood and stretched, checking his old-fashioned communicator for messages; there was one, a confusing jumble of words, numbers, and symbols; it was obviously scrambled for privacy. Muttering dolefully about 'ridiculous conspiratorial secrecy' and 'inevitable communication misfires', he set about the process of decoding it. When he had finished, he sat back and carefully read through the neat print he had copied into his notebook. He read it through, once, twice, scratching at his stubble contemplatively. After a few moments, he picked up his communicator and sent a brief response back to the sender.

For the rest of the afternoon, the sunlight slanted ever further across the table, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air and casting strongly marked shadows across the floor. But though the stacks of books remained sentinel, Henry was gone, off on some errand that only he understood or cared about.

* * *

The following day's classes were, surprisingly enough, relatively calm and free of anxiety. No bullies accosted him on the sidewalks, none of the undergraduates tried to stuff him in a locker. The weather was warmer too, providing pleasant relief from the bitter cold that had held the city in its grip. Although, as Henry quickly realized, warmer weather wasn't necessarily accompanied by increased brain-power in some of his students. The Jorgenson boy, in particular, seemed intent on giving him premature grey hair. Between constant acting up and the most ludicrous questions possible, any class he attended was always in danger of dissolution into unrivaled mayhem and masculine stupidity.

"Wait; you're seriously telling me I have homework due?" Steffan Jorgenson whined in his irritating nasal tones, the rest of the class filing out. "I have homework, now?"

"No, Steffan," Henry almost sighed. "You've had homework due all semester, I told you about it when term started. So where is it?"

The broad-shouldered boy hemmed and hawed, absently chewing at his thumb-nail. "Oh, that's what you said? Because, I'm pretty sure you said it was due at the end of the year."

"Well, have you been working on it? Please tell me you haven't just disregarded everything I've said in class."

"Not everything," Steffan protested. "I heard the part about you losing your job if any of your students fail; I also heard the part about everybody gets a fair chance at, what was it? Oh yeah: success!" the stocky student finished, grinning broadly.

Henry huffed in frustration. "Both true, but right now you're looking at a very low passing grade," he explained, hoping some of it would get through. "Lowest of the low, actually. Your written assignments are all missing, you haven't turned in any of the longer papers, class presentations are coming up and you still haven't submitted a topic. The point is: get your homework turned in, and maybe, just maybe, you'll actually learn something in the process."

"Learn?" Steffan asked. He had the unbelievable audacity to sound incredulous. Or maybe that was his habitual state of mind. "Who cares, Professor? I've got better things to do."

With which irritating response, he sauntered out of the classroom, thickly tattooed arms crossed over his designer leather jacket, the better to show off his bulging muscles. Henry remained staring after him, shaking his head and casting his hands skyward. He could have sworn he'd heard the cocky pest gabbling something about 'useless lectures' and 'stupid rules' as he walked away. Finally, slinging his heavy backpack over one shoulder, Henry walked slowly out of the building. In his preoccupation, he neglected to watch where he was going, and walked straight into a slight figure waiting just outside the door.

He stumbled, dropping his backpack in a swirl of heavy textbooks and escaping papers. Henry stooped, muttering an apology and grabbing desperately at his things, too embarrassed to look up at the source of his predicament. Too embarrassed, until a familiar voice spoke up just above his head.

"You might want to look where you're going next time."

"A- Astrid," he stuttered, surprised by her appearance. "What are you doing here?"

She offered him a hand up and he took it, standing to look her in the eye. "I wasn't aware that this is private property," she observed ironically, not bothering to answer the question.

"Okay, rephrase," he offered, stung by the implied criticism. "Are you hanging around outside of the first-year communication classroom to look for potential boyfriends? Because I might know one or two who would be just your type."

That was the wrong thing to say. Astrid's eyes narrowed dangerously, hands clenching into fists at her sides. "If and when I start looking for a boyfriend, you certainly won't be the first to know."

"Glad to hear it," he retorted, rising to her bait. "Just don't go around tripping up any candidates."

"That is not why I'm here," she snapped, color rising in her cheeks, "and you can forget it. I'll just leave, since you clearly don't want me around."

Heads were starting to turn in their direction, curious eyes and ears drawn by raised voices. Henry, too tired for a proper argument and eager to avoid public scrutiny, backed down. "All right, you win." He raised his hands in supplication. "Just don't step on me, okay?"

"Not this time," she relented, still growling slightly.

There was an awkward pause; Henry looked down at his feet, unsure what to say next.

"So . . . is this the part where I say I'm sorry?" he asked nervously.

She studied him again; he looked even skinnier in full daylight, and there was a pallor to his skin that made his freckles stand out alarmingly. She hadn't noticed the freckles before. "For what?" she asked, not quite ready to forgive him, though the freckles were beginning to change her mind. _Don't think about his freckles_ , she reminded herself irritably. "For running into me, and then starting an argument on the sidewalk? Or how about for running away the other night without answering my questions?"

He winced. "All of the above?"

"Yeah, all of the above," she replied, punching him in the shoulder.

He winced again, rubbing at the spot. "Okay. I'm . . . sorry."

"All right; we're good," she snipped, lifting his backpack. They set off down the sidewalk, Henry doing his best to keep up with her long strides.

"So . . . what were you doing outside my classroom?" he ventured after a while. "You weren't really looking for a boyfriend, were you?"

She frowned at him. "Are you really so oblivious?"

There was silence in response, and she rolled her eyes. "I was waiting for you."

"For me? That's . . . new." Henry smiled, flattered. The smile was nice, if slightly gap-toothed. "Is this about the other night?"

"Oh, in case you were wondering, yeah. Why didn't you answer my question?"

He took a deep breath. "Because you wouldn't believe me if I did."

She came to a full stop, turning to face him. "Go on, I'm intrigued now."

But he shook his head and kept going. "You shouldn't be. I've said too much already."

"Oh no you don't," she retorted, catching up with him. "If it's such a big secret, why bring it up in the first place? And, if it is a secret, how is it something you know about?"

He stilled, turning his head away. "Aagghh . . . I was afraid you were going to ask that."

"What, you're some secret government agent or something like that?"

His eyes widened, growing impossibly large in his narrow face. "Oh no, nothing like that!"

"Then what?" Astrid could sense his hesitation, so she smiled. That was playing dirty. "Come on," she pleaded gently. "Think of it this way: you owe me one. And besides, I'm a willing audience."

"More than that, you're an intelligent one," he muttered. He hesitated a bit longer before caving in. "Okay, fine. Do you have a ride?"

"Yeah. And nothing to do for the rest of the day."

Astrid's ride turned out to be the sweetest little motorcycle Henry had ever seen, a throwback to the kinds of vehicles people used before the war had made them unsafe and therefore obsolete. With a pang, he realized that the bike was probably illegal; he shot a questioning glance at Astrid, but she ignored him, fastening her helmet nonchalantly and handing him a spare. He settled behind her on the seat, his hands very discreetly placed on her shoulders. It was a new position, and a slightly awkward one.

They drove slowly in silence for several miles, Astrid navigating New Amsterdam's crowded streets with ease. The bike proved a smooth ride, aerodynamic enough that there was little wind resistance to deal with. Hiccup dared to smile, almost hesitant to admit to himself that he enjoyed it. Once they reached the suburbs, Astrid shifted into a cruising gear and straightened her back, though she kept her eyes forward, scanning the garbage-strewn streets for potential obstacles.

"So, back to my question," she ventured, breaking the silence. "What species?"

"I think there's another question you need to ask first," he replied carefully. He had to raise his voice to reply, but if she wanted to make conversation he wasn't going to stop her.

"And what would that be?"

"Where are we going?"

She cocked her head. "Okay, where are we going?"

"North," he replied, indicating the next turning with a pointed finger. "Just follow my lead. It shouldn't take us long to get there."

She nodded, and drove on. Their destination was well outside the city limits, set in a remote and mountainous region long since declared uninhabitable by humans, though squatters inevitably turned up in even the most desolate regions. They saw none, to their mutual relief. True to Henry's word, they came to a halt before a very tall, very intimidating electronic gate that rose abruptly out of the mountainous rock around it. Two guards in grey uniform stepped forward, approaching the vehicle with ominous frowns on their faces.

"Henry, what are we doing here?"


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: It's 12:30 am and I can't sleep. Time for an update! Grz, in answer to your question, not intentionally but it does appear to be happening that way, doesn't it? Enjoy, everybody!**

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Chapter 4:

Henry put a hand on Astrid's wrist, forestalling further speech or movement. "Let me handle this," he cautioned her, climbing off the bike and stepping forward to speak with the guards.

A few minutes' conversation and both guards backed away, disappearing through smaller doors set into the rock on either side of the gate. Henry resumed his seat, maintaining a stiffly neutral expression.

"Now what?" Astrid asked, hands on the accelerator.

"We wait," he sighed. "And it might be a while: this place is a well-guarded secret. Getting in is hard, and you don't want to tell anybody you've been here afterwards. There could be repercussions."

Astrid shifted to look at him. "Is this a military base or something?"

A pause, little more than a heart-beat. "So many questions, Astrid," he chided.

"Am I gonna' get an answer to my first question when we get . . . wherever it is we're going?"

"I hope so," he replied, before subsiding once more into silence.

A few moments passed.

"You're good at that, you know?"

"Good at what?" he asked, startled.

"Prevarication, silence, brooding," she replied nonchalantly. "Anyone who didn't know you might think you have something to hide."

"Well," he started, choosing his words carefully, "just thinking. Doctoral school isn't exactly a piece of cake. Neither is teaching."

"Especially with Steffan Jorgenson in one of your classes," she sympathized.

"Oh, you know him?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Don't say what you're thinking," she warned.

He smiled. "You're proving my point again."

That provoked a roll of the eyes. "Why doctoral school, if it's really so hard? And why comparative linguistics when you seem to have a hard time talking to people?"

He shrugged. "It's a long story."

"Something tells me we've got a long wait." She waited expectantly; psychology was a marvelous thing, and she was good at it.

"Okay, doctoral school because it gets me out of the house, and comparative linguistics because even with a planetary government and standardized language, there are still hundreds of indigenous and regional languages and dialects in the world. All of them have to be understood, translated, catalogued, and the standardized dialogue taught to the outliers. Communication underlies the workings of government. At least, so I'm told." There was an edge of irony in his voice, one that suggested far more than the words meant.

"You don't approve of the Premiership," she intuited.

He shook his head. "Too close to a dictatorship."

That was too strong a word for her. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"The whole planet under the rule of a single individual put there by money, military compulsion, or political manipulation? Come on, Astrid, that didn't work out when it was a single country at stake. Just look at Germany, Russia, Cuba, China; all of them, mid to late twentieth-century, controlled by dictators. In Germany, they invaded Poland, declared war on the rest of the world, and tried to wipe out an entire race. In Russia, thousands of people just disappeared, political dissidents and innocents alike, for no reason at all. In Cuba, the economy collapsed because the United States refused to export for political reasons. And in China, attempts at population control led to — What?"

She was shaking her head at him, eyebrows quirked quizzically. "You're really passionate about this, aren't you?"

He seemed to withdraw into himself, realizing he'd said too much. Suddenly, changing the subject seemed the only thing to do. "What about you? What're you studying, and why?"

"Psychology, because know your enemy."

"That doesn't make any sense."

She would have glared at him, but the helmet got in the way. "I'm an athlete; the way you win a game is by getting inside the opponent's head, knowing his next two steps before he even thinks of them. It works the same way in war."

"So sports are another form of warfare? That explains a lot."

His tone was ever so smug; time to change the subject again. "You must be writing a dissertation."

He nodded in answer, his helmet accidentally bonking the back of hers.

She pressed on. "What's the topic?"

He smiled mysteriously. "You're about to meet the topic," he stated simply, pointing towards the gate.

The guards had returned, and Astrid watched in astonishment as the gate rose slowly on massive pylons, allowing just enough space for her to inch the bike forward underneath.

"This is not what I was expecting," Astrid ventured, once through.

"Oh, don't worry. It gets worse," Henry quipped in reply.

Another short drive, and they parked outside a long, cinder-block structure with absolutely no visual adornments to relieve the dull tonal monotony. A large sign proclaimed the building the Raven Pointe Research and Training Facility. Another uniformed guard stood vigil outside the door; Henry approached carefully, hands in clear sight and ID ready, Astrid following close behind. The guard threw a glance in their direction, then promptly disregarded them. They ducked beneath the low doorframe, stepping into the dim interior.

It was colder indoors than out, the air sharp with chemicals and disinfectant. Astrid sniffed experimentally, but held her peace. Whatever the purpose of the Raven Pointe Research and Training Facility, she was swiftly concluding that it wasn't her place to criticize, or even to comment. Henry led the way down a long corridor and she followed closely, every footfall ringing loudly in her ears.

Henry's back tensed with every step, agitation seeming to rise as they neared their destination. Astrid wondered at that, trying not to imagine what might spark such a reaction in her companion. She hadn't long to guess, as their final turn led them to a door, a blank white canvas behind which something unknown and nameless waited, something she suddenly regretted asking about in the first place.

Henry seemed to sense her discomfort, for he turned to her then and smiled tightly. "It's okay," he said softly. "This is not what you're thinking."

"Are you reading my mind again?" she queried sharply, only half joking. It wasn't funny, and she was getting more anxious and irritated by the minute.

In answer, he turned and keyed an entry code into the door's inset lock. It opened soundlessly, enveloping them in a gust of warmer air. Henry visibly relaxed, as if something he dreaded hadn't come to pass. To Astrid's surprise, the chamber behind was much larger, with high, green-covered walls sealing in a courtyard of sorts. There was no ceiling overhead and she could see the sky and the mountains. Henry led her down a short flight of steps to the floor below.

To her surprise, it gave, dirt and moss springing slightly under her feet. Taking stock of her surroundings, she decided it was a man-made oasis of some kind; ivy clung to the walls, bushes and young trees dotted the enclosure. She could hear running water close by. "What is this place?" she asked, wondering.

"We call it the cove." Henry smiled. "Before the war, it was a zoo especially dedicated to protecting endangered species and encouraging their growth. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's an oasis, hidden inside a secret research installation, in the middle of nowhere," she summarized easily, her tone ironic.

"How romantic," he remarked without missing a beat.

She turned in a slow circle, wide eyes not missing a single detail. "I'll admit it: this is pretty cool. But why are we here, exactly?"

Henry had moved, walking with slow but purposeful steps toward the most densely vegetated corner of the cove, holding both hands in front of him. Astrid followed him, more curious than ever.

In the shadows, something darker stirred, a flat, scaly head rising from under a wing. Staring green eyes blinked and glistened, and a low rumble made her ears buzz.

"What is that?" she whispered, breath catching in her throat.

Henry approached the creature without the slightest sign of fear, both hands reaching up and stroking it on its blunt nose. The thing purred in satisfaction, and Astrid had to keep herself from grabbing Henry's shirt and forcibly yanking him away from it. She settled for backing up slowly, every single nerve and muscle on edge.

Oblivious to her obvious discomfort, Henry pressed his forward against the beast's snout, then turned to face her. "The past. And the future," he answered, the strangest light in his eyes.

She inhaled through clenched teeth. "But what. Is. It?" Every syllable was edged with rising tension. And the question was irrelevant, because she already knew the answer.

He set one restraining hand on the creature's head, gesturing toward her with the other. "Toothless, Astrid. Astrid, Toothless."

She bristled, still backing up. Wordlessly, mouth working angrily and shoulders rising with every breath, she stared a minute longer, then turned and retreated the way they had come, wanting nothing more than to get out.

Henry followed her, dodging rocks and bushes and nearly tripping over his own feet. He didn't overtake her until she had ascended the steps and reached the corridor, but he reached out and caught her by the elbow. She whirled, instinctively striking out. He ducked, pulling her off-balance with him. They both slammed into the wall, tumbling into a tangle of limbs. Unfortunately for him, she landed on top. Clenching her fist and drawing her arm back, she punched him with all of her strength in the closest vulnerable spot; again unfortunately, it happened to be his stomach.

He doubled over, clutching his bruised abdomen and gasping for air. Astrid stood over him, still seething. "Why . . . would you . . . _do_ that?" he wheezed.

"Why do you think?" she asked, voice dripping sarcasm. "Is this some kind of a joke to you? That . . . _thing_ . . . in there," she gestured eloquently, "is our enemy."

"They're not dangerous," he replied, standing up carefully, hand on the wall for support. "I've been working with him for the past three years, and he never threatens me. He's more scared of you than you are of him."

"Good," she spat, "because I am not going back in there."

"Yes, you are," he replied, reaching for her hand. "Astrid, I need you to see this."

She slapped his hand away and took off running down the corridor, half expecting him to follow. He didn't, and she made it outside without an obstacle; the guard had left his post. Odd, that, but she dismissed it, intent only on reaching her bike and getting out as quickly as possible.

She had the key in the ignition and was about to start the engine when she heard it, a thin whooshing sound that was difficult to identify. Before she had time to register it, the world dropped away and she was dangling by one arm from a massive black claw, rising higher and higher as her stomach did somersaults.

She panicked and screamed, writhing and kicking with all of her strength. The hold on her arm only tightened, and she gasped in pain; it felt like her arm was about to be yanked off.

Over the wind rushing past her ears, she was vaguely aware of Henry's voice somewhere above her head. That cleared her brain and she stopped kicking.

"Henry, get me down from here!" she yelled.

"You have to let me explain," he began. There was something in his voice that sounded suspiciously like pleading.

"I am not listening to _anything_ you have to say," she insisted, injecting her voice with as much authority as her compromised position would allow.

"Then I won't speak. Just let me show you."

Without warning, the claw holding her lurched upward and the pressure on her arm loosened. Astrid went into free-fall, her limbs flailing as she tumbled head over heels, coming to rest just behind Henry on the creature's back.

Then they were off, swooping, soaring, and spinning with the ground far below. Astrid screamed again, certain her stomach was permanently stuck in her throat. Henry was saying something, almost begging the creature to slow down, but the words barely registered in Astrid's fear-numbed mind.

"Toothless, what are you doing? We need her to like us!"

By this time, Astrid was practically glued to Henry's back, she was holding so tightly. She risked opening her eyes; bad idea. The ground was rushing up at them as Toothless dove, and Henry was shouting too.

"No, no, no, no, no, Toothless, we're gonna' crash!"


End file.
